


If You're Going Through Hell...

by The_Buzz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cas and Crowley Bond, Castiel Angst, Castiel POV, Castiel Whump, Crowley Angst, Crowley POV, Crowley Whump, Crowley and Feelings, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Demons, Drama, Friendship, Gen, Going to Hell, Hell, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Crowley, Possible Unrequited Love, Season/Series 10, Spiders, Unrequited Castiel/Dean Winchester, Unrequited Crowley/Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-25 20:01:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6208156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Buzz/pseuds/The_Buzz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Crowley shows up at Cas's door in the middle of the night asking for help because demon Dean is missing, Cas agrees to join forces to find him. Everything goes downhill from there. Set pre-Season 10.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shyday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shyday/gifts).



> Based on a request for Cas and Crowley whump and bonding, so... it's a whump and bonding fest. Enjoy!

Cas was trying to sleep. He’d cranked the heater before he climbed into bed, and pulled the thin motel blanket around himself, but it was still too cold in the room. A side effect of his failing grace, no doubt—along with the persistent headache, the tightness in his chest, and the way his joints ached every morning, it was as if a chill had settled somewhere deep in his bones and wouldn’t leave him alone.

He picked his head up and glanced at the glowing numbers on the clock on the nightstand. 3:47. He dropped his head again to the pillow, pressing his face into it and breathing in the musty smell. Exhaustion was another thing that had been plaguing him for the last several months, but for some reason sleep didn’t always come easy. Too many thoughts floated through his head: Dean was gone. Dean was alive. Dean was probably, if the lore he’d found meant anything, a demon.

Sighing, he turned over, so that he was staring up at the stained ceiling, wondering how the large vaguely butterfly-shaped blotch had gotten up there. Perhaps it was time to give up on sleeping for the night. Or perhaps—

He was startled from his thoughts by a three loud bangs on the door. A pause, then another _bang-bang-bang_. And another.

Cas swung his legs over the bed and pulled his robe around himself and tied it. He was puzzled. Who would be here at this hour? Sam had made it pretty clear during their last encounter that he wanted nothing more to do with him until his shoulder healed.

His heart leapt. Could it be Dean?

He padded across the chilly linoleum floor and rested a hand on the door handle just as it rattled again. Then he pressed his eye to the peephole, trying to simultaneously contain the hope bursting in his chest while also reminding himself that there was no point in getting his hopes up. It wouldn’t be Dean. Of course it wouldn’t.

It wasn't Dean. It was Crowley. Somehow, the sinking feeling that accompanied that discovery was far stronger than it had any right to be.

Cas pulled the door open, confusion climbing up through the weight of disappointment. Crowley was standing impatiently, hugging one arm to his chest. He looked ruffled.

“What do you want?” Cas asked.

Crowley huffed, haughtily taking in Cas’s bathrobe-clothed form, then pushing past him into the room and turning to face him. “Taking your time, were you?”

“I was trying to sleep,” Cas said, not sure why he was bothering to explain himself. “What are you doing here?”

"Dean is gone," Crowley said seriously.

Cas squinted at him, unsure whether this was the demon’s idea of a joke. “Yes. He is.”

For a moment, Crowley’s unflappable façade slipped, and Cas saw an emotion—fear, or regret?—slip across his face. Then the smug mask was back. “Not like you think, angel,” he said. “Believe me.”

“What does that mean?” Cas demanded, his patience wearing even thinner. 

Crowley didn’t answer immediately. Instead, holding his left arm close, he eased himself into the creaky chair that accompanied the motel room’s tiny linoleum table. He gazed at Cas, and Cas returned the gaze, brow folding. He had the distinct sense that Crowley was playing with him.

“I may have been...apprised…of Dean’s whereabouts for some time now,” Crowley said finally, squinting at Cas as if not sure how this news might be received. 

“What,” Cas said flatly. He hadn’t been this close to a lead in months, and yet now he felt frozen in place. Crowley had known. All those months and Crowley had known. He pressed his lips together and inhaled sharply through his nose, anger stirring in him. Crowley had  _know_ _n_. Then Crowley's earlier words came back to him. "What do you mean he's missing? Where is he now?"

“Well if I know, he wouldn't be missing,” Crowley said irritably, but raised the hand of his good arm in a gesture of surrender. “Of course. You’ve got every right to be upset. But hear me out, because this is important."

He paused long enough for Cas to nod tightly for him to go on."

"I’ve actually been… _with_ Dean…uh, not in the Biblical sense of course…”

Somehow, Cas had crossed the distance between them without being aware of even deciding to move. He grabbed Crowley by the collar, hauled him up from the chair, and slammed him against the near wall, making him yowl and rattling the print of a sunset hanging on the wall above. Despite his own weakness, Cas was able to pin him in place against the wall with his forearm across the demon’s neck. It took all the willpower he had not to pull back and smash his fist right into Crowley’s gasping face.

“I can explain,” Crowley said, when he'd caught his breath. He didn't seem overly surprised by Cas's actions, though Cas could tell that his pain, at least, was real. “Come on now. Cas. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important.”

Cas barely registered his plea.

“Dean has been _with you_ ,” he snarled, shoving Crowley back against the wall again.  

Crowley winced. “It was his decision not to contact you or the gigantor. Not mine.”

“His decision,” Cas ground out. “Crowley. What did you do to Dean?”

“I made him a demon,” Crowley admitted after a moment.

Cas smashed his fist into Crowley's face. His knuckles collided with the sharp ridge of bone under Crowley's cheek and he felt something crack, then stumbled back, numb. Crowley doubled over for a bried moment, swearing, but Cas ignored him. It as if the world itself had tilted slightly on its axis. His anger faded as a roaring sound filled his ears.

Crowley straightened, dabbing at his cheekbone tenderly before saying in an infuriatingly calm voice, “He was dead. I knew what would happen if I put the First Blade in his hands. So I gave it to him. Better than letting him rot, eh, or letting stupid Moose make a deal he'd undoubtedly try to take back later. I _thought_ Dean and I could rule Hell together. Clean up the mess that my kidnapping and Abbadon’s little civil war left behind. Unfortunately, that’s not how things went.”

“What are you talking about?” Cas growled.

“Dean, er, didn’t want to rule Hell,” Crowley said awkwardly. His face was already starting to bruise, but Cas felt no remorse. “He wanted to drink, experience the local wildlife from every angle--believe me you don’t want to know--and also to perform truly, truly awful karaoke every night. Didn't even want to kill anyone. I stayed with him, hoping he’d come around, but…not so much.”

“Where is he now, Crowley?” Cas ground out, not sure what to make of Dean’s demonic activities and deciding that he really didn’t want to ponder them too much.

Crowley gave a deep sigh and blinked slowly. More than anything, he looked tired. “Hell wasn’t nearly as stable as I’d hoped it would be, after the wicked bitch of the west turned half of my denizens against me. Apparently, they got tired of waiting for me to return from my ‘vacation’ to rule Hell, and decided to depose me. About two hours ago, they tried to kill me. I escaped. But they took Dean. Now, we’ve got to get him back.”

“We,” Cas repeated incredulously. There was so much wrong with that presumption that he didn’t know where to start. “Where did they take him, Crowley?”

“Hell, I presume," Crowley said.

Cas squinted at him for several seconds. “Why did you come to me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“No,” Cas said. The fact that he was still contemplating whether he had the energy to smite Crowley for turning Dean into a demon meant that, as far as allies went, he had to be fairly low on the list. “If you want him back, don't you have demon allies?"

“Not that I’m sure I can trust,” Crowley said delicately, and Cas remembered vaguely that he’d been betrayed by a demon who had sided with Abbadon once before. “I assumed you’d want to find Dean. And that because you're so reasonable, you would be slightly less likely to kill me on sight than Moose. Anger issues, you know.”

"Why do you want to find him?" Cas asked. Somehow, he couldn't imagine Crowley being motivated by any of the emotions that were driving his and Sam's search for Dean.

Crowley rolled his eyes. "Obviously. If I'm going to have any chance winning Hell back, I'm going to need him. Having a Knights of Hell brings legitimacy to the regime, and so on."

Cas shook his head. “If we find him. Sam and I will cure him. I won't let you have him.”

Crowley waved a dismissive hand. “Thought you'd say that. Cross that bridge, and so on. As long as Abbadon’s supporters—don’t even know who’s riling them up, if you can believe it—don’t have him and the First Blade, I’ll be better off. So are you with me, or not?”

"What do you have in mind?" Cas asked cautiously.

Crowley’s face lit up. “Well. Assuming Dean is in Hell, I know how to find him.”

“How?” Cas said impatiently. For a moment, the thought slipped through his mind that it was insane to trust Crowley, and that perhaps he should dispose of him and then try to find Dean himself. But it passed just as quickly. He was in no shape to mount an attack on Hell like he had six years before, especially not without a garrison of angels at his back. If he was going to go in, he’d need help from someone on the inside.

“Yes. Right.” Crowley shook his head slightly, as if trying to marshal his thoughts. The smug mask seemed to slip again, revealing the face of a tired, hurt, and worried man. But it was back in place in seconds. “Well. In Hell, there’s a room of sorts, like those big security rooms they have in malls, where a guard can watch all the cameras. Of course, there aren’t literal cameras, but there’re spells and enchantments and so on that allow a bloke to see what’s going on in all corners. All we have to do is get in.”

He paused dramatically, making Cas wonder, “And how do we do that?”

“Well,” Crowley said, “As king I had full access. As…deposed king with an angel as a wingman" (he smirked) "we’ll have to take the back entrance. Lots of areas not often tread, by demons or anything else. Very Frodo and Sam sneaking into Mordor, if you catch my drift.”

The phrase sent several thoughts and images cascading through Cas’s head, which meant that it was a pop culture reference instilled by Metatron. He frowned briefly, sorting them out, then said, “I see. Like when Gollum led Frodo and Sam through Cirith Ungol to reach Mount Doom, intending them to meet their destruction by the giant spider Shelob.”

“...Right,” Crowley said, squinting at Cas in plain confusion. “In any case, we should be able to get past most of the nasties if we take a few ill-trodden routes. Once we’ve located Dean, we can find a way to free him. They won’t be expecting an angel, not even one whose batteries need a good recharging. It'll give us an advantage.”

Cas nodded, satisfied for the moment. He found that, as insane as it was to trust Crowley to lead him through Hell for simply the chance to find Dean, with no guarantee that they’d even be able to free him, or that Crowley wouldn’t simply try to kill him as soon as he didn’t need him anymore, the last few months without Dean had been so painful that there was really no question. Of _course_ he’d go after Dean. Of course he’d follow a demon and risk everything he had.

The memory of standing over a bloodied Dean with an angel blade raised, as Dean choked out, “I need you,” sprang to his mind unbidden, as it did occasionally. But now, instead of the usual rush of mixed guilt and amazement that Dean actually  _needed_ him, he felt only one thing: a certainty that as much as Dean had once needed Cas, Cas needed Dean. Without Dean, his life was empty.

“Very well,” he said finally, eyeing Crowley. “How do we begin?”

“Well,” Crowley said, eyeing him back, “first things first, angel. Put on some bloody pants.”


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as Cas disappeared into the dirty little motel bathroom to put his face on (or whatever) Crowley sagged back in the chair and let his eyes close. It was the first time since the attack that he'd truly paused, and he felt bloody awful.

The demon who’d headed up the efforts to kill him—some bloke named Alphonso who’d used to work in soul accounting and as far as Crowley knew had no particular grudge against him—had shot him in the shoulder with something, after he'd crashed the Minnesota hotel bar where Dean had been performing his usual off-key drunken karaoke. Whatever the bullet was made of, it had lodged in good and he couldn’t get it out. And he couldn't move his arm without the whole area seizing with pain. 

Annoying as it was, the physical pain he could deal with. He was a demon, after all, born of what amounted to millennia of torture (Hell time) in the darkest pits of the underworld. Really, what was driving him up the wall was the hailstorm of emotions surging through him without any indication of letting up. He was terrified for himself, of course, which was reasonable given that his fellows had just tried to _kill_ him. And he hated the uncertainty and the powerlessness of it. He wanted to be in control of the situation, as usual.

But that wasn’t all. Most absurdly, Crowley found that he was truly, and deeply, worried for Dean. Captured and outnumbered by unfriendly demons, Dean was probably in a world of trouble and torture. Occasionally, the worry morphed into a hollow, soul-sucking sensation that it took him a bit longer to place. Guilt. He was actually feeling bad about having gotten him into this situation. And then there was one more, which he had resolved never to admit to anyone or even think about if he could help it: he actually missed having Dean around. As frustrating as it had been waiting for his very own Knight of Hell to put down the beer and do something, well, Hell-ish, the last several months with Dean had been some of the best of Crowley’s life, including all those years before he died and became a demon. All in all, it made him want to do something. For Dean. It was unprecedented, really.

And on top of that, he was beginning to wonder if he was making a huge mistake. Sure, he  _wanted_ Dean back, but he'd learned long ago that there were some things it was better to keep wanting. This was hero nonsense, the kind of foolhardy plans that the Winchesters so often rushed headlong into, never worked out well. What were the chances that this was going to work out any differently? Castiel wasn't exactly a ticket to success.

The bathroom door popped open. Crowley forced himself to straighten as Cas walked out. The angel had put on his suit, at least, and he picked up the trench coat from his bed and put it on, stowing a shiny angel blade in the lining. Then he wrote a note for Sam and left it on the creaky little table on the motel room. 

“We’ll have to go in through a portal,” Crowley said, as Cas walked around the room and collected—absurd as it seemed for a trip to hell—his wallet and keys and stowed them all in his coat. He noted that the angel was moving stiffly, and that he looked unusually tired, but put the thought out of his mind. He didn’t exactly have any better options, and he wasn’t about to start worrying about bloody Castiel.

“Why a portal?” Cas asked.

Crowley sighed. For a four billion-year-old being, Cas could be impressively dense. “Obviously, we can’t go in through the front doors, seeing as Abbadon’s best are undoubtedly at the gates.” He really had to find out which demons in particular were behind the upset. “As for teleportation, you may have noticed that we don’t just let angels in. How long did it take you to fight your way in to rescue Dean the first time? Not to mention, we’d show up on Hell radar the second we did. Can’t chance it.”

“Fine,” Cas said grudgingly. “Where is the nearest portal?”

Crowley grabbed Cas’s elbow with his good arm and concentrated a second. In a blink their surroundings had changed—they were in a wide, damp field, surrounded by several dozen grazing sheep. The air was chilly and a stiff breeze blew across the grass, which was damp and squelched a little under their feet. The sun was bright, despite it having been the middle of the night when they'd left, and there was no one else in sight. 

Crowley forced himself to crack a grin, though the trip had taken a bit more out of him than he was strictly comfortable with and the world was tilting a little while his shoulder throbbed harder. “Home sweet home, actually. Scotland.”

“I see," Cas said.

He’d be damned (again) if the angel didn’t sound at least a little impressed.

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “Little known portal. Only found out about it accidentally, looking up occult forces near the old home town. No one else ought to know about it.”

He snapped his fingers and muttered an incantation. The portal came roaring to life, a mess of swirling, whirling interdimensional travel with a solid five foot diameter. It hovered in the air about chest level and made a rushing sound like a whirlpool. Cas took a step forward.

Quickly, Crowley stepped in front of the portal. Had his shoulder not been throbbing, he would have folded his arms, but he settled for giving Cas a long stare. Cas stopped short and returned his gaze mistrustfully.

The sudden loud bleating of a sheep diluted the moment a bit.

Crowley cleared his throat, and went on regardless. He had never been one to enter into a situation with a few contingencies in place. “Before we go in, there are a few things I need to get straight.”

The angel’s eyebrow rose slowly and he folded his arms. “What?”

“Number one,” Crowley said sharply, irritated at himself for feeling a tiny bit nervous. “While we’re in Hell, you do exactly as I say. You may be an angel, but your light there is flickering, and I won’t have you going off and doing anything stupid that will get us both in trouble.”

“I can handle myself, Crowley,” Cas said dangerously.

"Not what I mean."

"And I won't take orders from you."

They stared at each other a few seconds longer. The hatred flickering in Cas's eyes was plain, if not surprising. Well, Crowley thought, it had been worth a shot. If nothing else, he was learning plenty about where their relationship stood. Normally, he would never go forward on terms when it was clear that the other party was not willing to follow them (horrible business practice, really), but now it was more important to suss out just how obstreperous Castiel was likely to be.

“Number two,” Crowley plowed on. “You will refrain from harming me in any way. Even after we’ve rescued Dean. This should go without saying, but, obviously knowing you…” he shrugged. 

Cas didn't respond at all. Well, that was useful information too.

“Number three,” Crowley said sharply, knowing full well how his next request would be received, but feeling the need to say it anyway. “If and when we rescue Dean, you don’t get to keep him.”

"Yes. I do," Cas said bluntly. 

"We're in this together," Crowley pointed out. "I need Dean as much--dare I say--more than you do. Once Hell is stabilized and back under my control, you get him back, and we both win."

Cas turned on Crowley, effectively towering over him. His expression was stony and Crowley had the distinct feeling he was about to get roughed up again.  "No."

Crowley shifted his weight slightly, tipping his chin up and narrowing his eyes. He considered threatening to leave Cas sitting in the field if he didn't agree to his terms, but the angel would know it was an empty threat and that would leave Crowley in the awkward position of having to concede that point. His little information-gathering tactic had already placed him in the ostensibly weaker position, and he wasn't about to solidify that with another beating.

Instead Crowley glared up at Cas for a few more seconds, wishing that Cas was just a little bit less tall. He never _seemed_ tall around the Winchesters, after all. Once he thought he'd achieved the proper effect, he let his face relax into a smile. "All right then. Let's go."

They stared at each other for a few tense seconds. The only sound between them was the _whoosh_ of the swirling portal and another sudden, loud _baaa_. Followed by another. Then another, and another, as the sheep started to move around them. Within seconds the once-placid field was full of commotion, as fluffy white bodies ran around them bleating like the end of the world was coming. Crowley moved instinctively closer to Cas, not at all interested in being trampled.

"Look up," Cas said.

The source of the sheep's anxiety became clear. Approaching at a breakneck speed from all directions were roiling, purplish clouds of demon smoke. In the seconds it had taken Crowley to register what was going on, the demons had crossed more than half the distance of the field.

"We have to go _now_ ," Crowley said.

The smoke was angling down, now, straight toward, them, and Crowley took one step toward the portal before a hundred and eighty pounds of angel through the portal. They both fell forward into the portal and landed on a cold, stone floor in a dimply lit room. Crowley couldn't help a cry of surprise and pain as he landed on his hurt shoulder. The smoke was still bearing down on portal, visible from this side as if underwater.

"Close it!" Cas snapped.

Crowley forced himself to think. The same incantation that had opened the portal would close it, but the demons could open it again just as easily. He had to destroy it. Unfortunately it had been decades since he’d last glanced at the spell to do that and it took a good deal of energy on a good day, which this decidedly was not.

"Crowley!" Cas said sharply. 

He closed his eyes in concentration, muttering the words as he recalled them and channeling his power toward the portal. Slowly, painfully, as if the edges were being shoved together by two giant invisible hands, the portal began to disappear. He kept chanting, grasping his bad shoulder with one hand, until the portal came together. A single, tiny puff of demon smoke poked through to their side, then dissipated. The portal was gone.

“What did you do?” Cas asked. The angel had pushed himself off the floor as the portal closed and was standing above him.

Crowley sunk back a moment, mildly dizzy. Putting that much power into anything, even when he was in tip-top shape, was always good for a few minutes of wooziness. Then he started pushing himself up with a grimace, keeping his bad arm tucked against his stomach. Cas, the poor excuse for an angel, didn’t even offer him a hand.

“No more portal,” Crowley said. He was sitting upright now and decided to take a breather. “Gone for good. If they want to come after us they’ll have to come in another way, and that will mean finding us. For all they know, thing could have spit us out anywhere."

“They found us once,” Cas points out.

“Yes, well now, we’re…” Crowley glanced around, not quite sure how to describe their location. 

They’d landed in what looks like a deep cave room, lit only by an orange light emanating from something moldy-looking attached to the stalactites clinging to the ceiling and the stalagmites jutting up from the floor. Their jagged edges made them look like teeth, as if they were sitting in the closed mouth of some great beast. In the center of the room was a wide, dark pool, its waters placid. Crowley frowned. “I’ve no bloody idea where we are, actually. Somewhere in Hell, I presume. One of the weird parts.”

There were plenty of weird parts. Hell, as far as Crowley had ever been able to tell, was a sort of dimension parallel to Earth. Its landscape, however, tended to have what humans would consider odd features, such as the endless cavern that was currently being put to good use with matching endless ropes and hooks. Although most of it had been built up by the demons for various evil purposes, a few areas remained untouched. 

“We're where?" Cas asked petulantly. 

"I don't know," Crowley admitted, finally climbing to his feet.

His shoulder throbbed harder, but he clenched his teeth and ignored the pain and the increased dizziness that followed. He’d showed enough weakness in front of the angel today. He needed him, but he trusted him about as far as he could throw the big Winchester. And Cas's reaction to his conditions had only solidified his certainty that Cas was not someone who could be relied upon. 

"Are you going to be all right?" Cas asked. He didn't sound particularly interested in the answer.

"Fine," Crowley lied crossly. 

“So, what now?” Cas asked.

“Patience,” Crowley grumbled. Cas glared at him. They were really off to a great start, they were. “I assume we have to get out of this place. Wherever this place is.”

“How?”

They both looked around again. Then Crowley’s eyes settled again on the pool. Even in the dim light, he could now see that the pool wasn't a pool at all. It was the mouth of a wide, water-filled tunnel. It curved downward, then flattened into a gloomy, horizontal tube.

 “Oh, you’ve got to be bloody kidding me,” he muttered. His shoulder, which already felt like someone was stabbing it repeatedly with a knife, somehow seemed to throb harder at the thought of it. 

Cas let out a breath beside him. “You think we have to swim?”

“You see any other way out?” Crowley asked. 

“No,” Cas said.

Crowley kicked off his shoes (good Italian leather, a read shame) and shed his coat. Cas did the same beside him. 

This was _not_ going to be fun.


	3. Chapter 3

The water was icy cold and Cas felt the shock through his entire body. For a moment his vessel almost forgot that it didn’t _need_ to breathe, and he nearly look in a lungful of freezing water in his surprise. For a few long seconds he hung in the water, sinking slowly, before he found the dying spark of his grace and used its power to satisfy his vessel’s need to take in air. 

Crowley had plunged in a few feet away from him and was already making awkward strokes down into the darkness below, seemingly trying to use his right arm as little as possible. Cas shook himself and followed, his sodden shirt and pants swirling around him. His angel blade bumped at his side with each stroke.  

Before long, he found himself falling into a rhythm, the motion keeping his failing vessel reasonably comfortable, if not warm, and as the minutes passed even the nagging urge to breathe faded into the background.

Unfortunately, in the dark, silent stillness, with Crowley’s thrashing movements in front of him the only thing to draw his attention, Cas's mind wandered.

It was Crowley’s fault that Dean had been turned into a demon, and Crowley’s fault that he had been drawn away from the bunker. Which made it Crowley’s fault that Cas and Sam had been searching fruitlessly for months, Sam growing gaunter with each week and Cas’s grace fading just as surely as their hope. All of those months of misery, of stress and worry and fear, were Crowley’s fault. And then of course there was all that had happened to _Dean_. Not only was Dean a demon because of Crowley, but now he was in the hands of unfriendly forces, _because of Crowley_. Cas knew admittedly little of what demons did to their own after a shift in power, but he knew what they did to their enemies, and he had little reason to expect that Dean would fare any better.

He fantasized about grabbing Crowley by the kicking ankle and yanking him back, then pouring all of the energy he had into smiting the bastard.

If he were to be honest with himself, however, he had to admit that perhaps not _all_ of his anger was directed Crowley. Cas had known that Dean had died while bearing the mark, and that Sam had summoned Crowley to the bunker not minutes later. He should have put the pieces together. He should have found Dean sooner, before any of this could have happened. And now, despite it all, he was trusting Crowley to help him bring Dean back. It was absurd and yet he had no other choice that he could see.

He was gritting his teeth by the time a dim, reddish light began to spread through the water around them, a literal light at the end of the tunnel appearing ahead of them.

Crowley picked up his pace, and it was only then that Cas realized the demon had been flagging, the strokes he made with his right arm increasingly feeble. He wondered at Crowley's injury, which had been intermittently leaving a thin trail of blood in the water behind him (just barely detectable in the pitch darkness by Cas’s angelic senses), but couldn’t find it in himself to much care. If it became a problem in their search for Dean, he might have to address it, but otherwise all he could feel was a grim sense of satisfaction that Crowley was receiving at least a little of the suffering he deserved.

The light grew brighter and finally, the long tunnel opened up to the air. Cas burst to the surface with a gasp, his body insisting on the breath, the strain on his grace lessening as the air filled his lungs. Crowley was already heaving himself onto dry ground. He was sopping wet and looked exhausted, flopping onto his stomach and laying there for a few seconds, eyes closing.

Cas ignored him and looked around. They’d appeared in another rough, cave-like room, the tunnel opening to a circular hole with steep sides, its diameter perhaps five feet across. Though there was a steep cave wall directly behind them, theirs was not the only pool in the room—there were dozens, and many of them appeared far less placid than theirs. Several were bubbling violently, and a few seemed to be giving off noxious fumes. As he watched, one relaxed from a vicious boil to look as cool and calm as their own.

Cas hooked his elbow over the edge and started hoisting himself up, frustrated at how tired he felt. At full strength, he could have undertaken this journey in the blink of an eye.

“Huh,” Crowley said, as he finally pushed himself into a sitting position, cradling his right arm. 

A second later, the pool between them burst into violent bubbling, heat and steam radiating from the water with the suddenness of magic.

Cas jumped, heart pounding far faster than it had any right to.

“Huh,” Crowley said again, frustratingly unfazed.

Cas wasn't sure whether it was Crowley's cavalier attitude toward nearly getting them both boiled alive, or simply the inevitable result of spending two hours of fantasizing about smiting him, that drove Cas to climb to his feet, pick Crowley up by the sopping lapel and slam him against the nearest wall for the second time that day.

“Ow!” Crowley exclaimed as his shoulder hit the wall, a real grimace eclipsing his feigned offense for a few moments, before he added, “What’s that for?”

“Did you know that that was going to happen?” Cas growled, snapping the first thing that came into his mind though really, it was the least of Crowley’s offenses.

Crowley gestured at the water with his good hand. “That? No. If I’d known that don’t you think I might’ve told you to hurry?”

His anger boiling over as sure as their underwater passage, Cas didn’t hesitate before punching Crowley in the mouth. That wiped away the smug, unconcerned expression quickly enough.

“You said that you could lead me through Hell to find Dean,” Cas ground out. He pulled Crowley far enough from the wall that he could toss him against it again, knocking his head against it and rattling his teeth. It was extremely satisfying. "Can you do that, or not?"

Crowley hissed in pain. "Yes. Now, knock it off."

When Cas only raised his fist again, wanting nothing more than to _hurt_ him, Crowley shoved back with surprising power.

Cas stumbled back, barely catching himself from falling into a pool in which a noxious green-tinged water was swirling lazily.

Crowley gave him a lopsided grin, reaching up to touch his lip where Cas’s fist had caught him. “Temper,” he chided. “You know I don’t usually let anyone get that rough with me until at least the third date.”

Cas growled, words escaping him for a moment. “I'm following you. I'm trusting you," he gritted finally. “After what you did to Dean. To Sam. To _me_. And this is the best you can do?”

“Yes!” Crowley said exasperatedly, his hand traveling down from his cheek to cup his wounded shoulder. Backed against the wall and drenched, his face bloodless under its beard even in the reddish light, he looked deceptively small and harmless. 

But another wave of suspicion made certain that Cas was not moved by the pathetic picture. In fact, he wondered how he hadn't seen it before. For a second time, he was more frustrated with himself, his own incompetence, than with Crowley.

“You want me to believe that you are willing to risk your life for him,” Cas said. “That you, a demon who has had no compunction in killing either Winchester before now and who has never done anything for anyone but himself, are willing to risk being boiled alive in the depths of Hell to save _Dean_.”

“I told you,” Crowley said easily, apparently unfazed by the change in topics. “I need him to reclaim Hell. Regain my legitimacy, and so on.”

“Not at the risk of your own life,” Cas said harshly. “I know you, Crowley. You would rather live in obscurity than risk your own skin. You don’t even know that having Dean by your side will guarantee your return to power. Your enemies bested you when he was there.”

Crowley’s face melted into something more like disbelief. “I knew you were stupid, angel, but I didn’t realize you were _that_ stupid.”

Cas shoved down another wave of anger. He just clenched his teeth and gritted, “What do you mean?”

"I take calculated risks," Crowley snapped. “Tell me, Evil Knievel, do you have any idea how difficult it is to become King of Hell? How easily it to go wrong and end in me being spitted somewhere enjoying eternal torture? See, I do know. I think about these things. And then I take reasonable, calculated risks."

“Fine, then,” Cas said stubbornly. “Going after Dean like this is not a reasonable, calculated risk. There isn’t enough in it for you. What are you really after?”

For a few seconds, Crowley just gave him a long, shrewd look, then answered in a measured tone. “Maybe that’s none of your bloody business, angel. Now, since there is no turning back,” he glanced at the still-jumping pool from which they’d climbed, “can we get on with this?”

Cas wanted to punch him again, to beat the truth out of him.  But as little as he wanted to admit it, he had no other option but to follow him. He couldn’t leave - even if he could make his way back through the boiling passageway with his grace as faded as it was, the portal was gone - and he didn’t know the way forward without Crowley, nor did he have any hope of saving Dean without his help. 

"Fine," Cas said shortly. “But understand this: if you hurt Dean, or Sam, again, I will destroy you.”

Crowley started to wave away the statement with a “yeah, yeah, I know,” but Cas cut him off.

“I will destroy you,” Cas said again, stepping forward and glaring a hole in him, “and it will not be a quick death. Do you understand?”

 “Yes,” Crowley said, with a mild eye roll that set Cas’s blood burning again. It didn’t matter that he was weak, or that he was still cold and wet and stiff. That he didn't even dare waste the grace to miracle himself dry, for fear that he wouldn't have enough left when it really mattered. Crowley had to understand that the wrath of an angel was not to be taken lightly. But the demon’s next words were placating, more or less. “I understand, angel. Untwist your panties. I won’t hurt Dean, or the giant baby. I promise. If nothing else, I’ve learned my lesson about screwing with the lot of you.”

“Fine,” Cas said again. “How do we get out of here?”

They both looked around the room. It was larger than the one they’d arrived in. As he squinted through the dim light, he saw that the far wall was carved into the generically medieval, overwrought designs that Hell seemed to favor. Lots of gargoyles, sharp edges, and thick runes in what Cas assumed was the most intimidating script the demons who had designed it could muster.

“First off, we’ll figure out what that says,” Crowley decided. He took a cautious step forward with his eyebrows raised, as if concerned that Cas might throw him against the wall again.

Cas stepped aside, then they crossed the room together, stepping around the various pools. The one they had emerged from was still bubbling.

Most of the runes on the far wall, Cas recognized only vaguely as demonic symbols, part of a bastardized form of Enochian. He squinted at it, trying to recall what the characters meant when strung together as they were. His head was aching.

“Good news!” Crowley announced after a short while, during which Cas had managed to decipher the words _stone, thick,_ and something like _agony_. “It’s a door.”

Cas raised an eyebrow.

“Bad news,” Crowley added. “It’s a magic door. It won’t open without an offering.”

“What kind of offering?”

“Blood,” Crowley said.

Cas was neither very surprised nor very concerned. “Fine. How much?”

“Are you volunteering?” Crowley asked.

“Yes,” Cas said.

Crowley shrugged, producing a knife from an inside pocket. “Hold out your arm, then.”

But before he could slice into the tender flesh of Cas’s forearm, the wall behind them began to vibrate slightly, dust and small rocky bits crumbling down. The runes were beginning to glow red.

“Crowley?” Cas asked, wondering if perhaps the mere act of offering the blood had been enough for the door.

But Crowley was backing away, his round face tight with fear. “That wasn't us."

“Of course not,” Cas muttered, pulling out his angel blade and wishing that for once, something could just go right.

The shaking increased. Dust and stone were falling from cracks appearing in the wall. Then, with a mighty rumble, the wall exploded inward, chunks of rock spewing toward them. A large one hit Cas in the ribs, making him stumble backwards and grunt at the pain, but he regained his footing and stood his ground, shielding his face with one arm.   

“Oh, bugger,” Crowley said.

In the empty space where the wall had been stood a dozen black-eyed, grinning demons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you who are waiting for the Cas whump, don't worry - it's coming. :)
> 
> Otherwise, I would appreciate any comments you might have! This story is very different than anything else I've written recently, and I'm interested to hear what y'all think. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

Cas looked back and forth between Crowley and the demons, who were all smiling evilly at them, and raised his blade. It was clear that these demons were not friends, but there were too many for him to easily fend off in his condition. If there was any chance they could find some other way out of this…

Crowley tipped his chin up and narrowed his eyes, in a gesture that Cas was beginning to realize meant that the demon felt threatened. “Alphonso,” he said.

The demon in the middle of the pack, a tall fellow with long, curly black hair stepped forward. “You can’t have thought you would get far, _Your Majesty,”_ Alphonso said.

Cas had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at the overbearingly evil sneer. Demons could be many things, but imaginative was generally not among them. He supposed, in this situation, they didn’t have to be.

Crowley did roll his eyes. “Ooh. Scary. Really, Alphonso, there’s a reason you got sent to Accounting.”

Alphonso glowered but didn’t respond. Instead, he waved the other demons to surround them. The demons complied, grabbing them each roughly by the arms. Crowley audibly hissed in pain as his arms were wrenched behind him. A demon relieved Cas of his angel blade.

Cas caught Crowley’s eye questioningly, hoping Crowley got the message: _Do we fight?_ But Crowley only shook his head infinitesimally as if to say, _No chance_.

“Actually, since you mention us not getting far,” Crowley went on, directing his words at Alphonso as if nothing had just passed between him and Cas, “How did you find us? You shouldn’t have known we were in Scotland, or that we’d’ve ended up here, wherever the hell here is.”

Alphonso answered Crowley by punching him in the stomach. Crowley folded over, wheezing.

“You mean you don’t know?” Alphonso asked.

Crowley’s head bobbed up. “Know what?”

Alphonso gestured again, and the demons jerked them forward.

Perhaps they didn’t have a chance, Cas thought, fighting now—but who knew where the demons would take them, or what their chances would be then? At least here they were together and had the element of surprise on their side. He assumed that if he took his chances fighting, Crowley would have no choice but to back him. Hopeless though he thought it was.

So when the demons shoved him forward again, Cas shoved back. The demon to his right he managed to push into one of the noxious green pools, where he started writhing and splashing as if acid were eating into him, and in the same movement Cas spun around, pressing a hand to the forehead of the one on his left. She screamed as her eyes burned out and he grabbed his angel blade from her hand before she hit the ground. He had about one more second of the demons’ surprise to take advantage of and so he lunged at the next nearest pair, plunging the blade into the neck of a tall male. The other demon lunged at him with a knife, but he blocked her swing with one arm—the blade cutting deep into the meat of his forearm—and grabbed her with his other hand, drawing on his faded grace to smite her into oblivion.

Then a hard blow to his back sent him careening forward, and he hit the rough stone floor hard enough to tear the skin on his palms and his knees and bare feet. He pushed himself up but a hard boot collided with his ribs—already sore where the flying chunk of stone had clipped him—and he landed on his back, gasping. Another kick and another and another—there were too many demons—and he heard the crack of his ribs before he felt it. Then he was being hauled upright again, demons grasping either arm, pain blazing in his side. Another demon wrestled the angel blade from his hand, twisting his wrist violently, and handed it to Alphonso.

Crowley was still standing placidly between two other demons, watching it all unfold with wide blinking eyes and an unreadable expression. Cas felt another surge of rage. Together, they might have had a chance, and Cas had fully expected to see him fighting or at least bloodied and restrained as Cas was. After all his talk of being in this together, Crowley had no right to stand and watch while Cas fought for both of their freedom…and for Dean. Now, they truly had no chance at all.

“That was unwise,” Alphonso told Cas, stalking toward him. It occurred to Cas, through the ringing in his ears and the pain making itself known all over, that this was the first the demon had acknowledged him, and that he hardly seemed surprised to have found an angel consorting with the King of Hell. Curiouser and curiouser.

Cas glanced at Crowley, wondering what he thought about all of this, but Crowley only stared back at him blankly.

“But then, Castiel,” Alphonso said, leaning in toward Cas and smirking at him, then letting the tip of the angel blade slide down Cas’s cheek in a mockery of a caress and drawing a thin line of blood, “You don't have reputation for wisdom, have you?”

All of the demons were watching now, forming a rough circle around them.

Cas clenched his hands into fists. His entire side was sparking with pain, every breath jabbing painfully, and the energy he’d expended to smite the two demons had left him lightheaded and nauseous. Another escape attempt would not likely end any better than his first, but it was hard to see any other options. The one thing he was certain of was that he did not want to be taken wherever it was Alphonso and his demons planned to take him.

“Where’s Dean?” Cas demanded, stalling for time more than anything else.

Alphonso’s face cracked into a grin, and the demons around him chuckled as well, moving in closer. It struck Cas as an odd reaction but he stowed the thought away for later.

“Tell me where Dean is,” he tried again.

“We were told how you felt about Dean,” Alphonso said. He dragged the tip of the angel blade along the underside of Cas’s jaw. “Our new king has—”

_BOOM!_

Whatever else Alphonso was going to say was cut off by a sudden, invisible force slamming into him—and into the demons surrounding him, throwing them all across the cavernous room like bowling pins.

For a split second, he saw an unexpected image of Crowley—Crowley standing tall, one palm outstretched, grinning as the power crackled around him, the two demons on either side sparking into death—and then he was turning over in the air and rolling to a rough stop on the ground in between two bubbling pools. All around him demons were falling as well, some splashing into in pools with and others skidding to a stop like Cas. Alphonso landed headfirst in a particularly noxious green one nearby, emitting a strangled bubbling noise for a few seconds before stilling.

Cas pushed himself up dizzily, coughing and tasting something metallic. Then there were hands, helping him up.

“Get up,” Crowley said. Up close, the triumphant, powerful look was gone, his skin was grayish and he was trembling. “…They won’t be out long.”

“What did you do?” Cas asked. He and Crowley were the only ones moving.

“Waited until you had all their attention, then let loose,” Crowley said. “Really, Castiel. Trying to fight twelve demons all on your own? Totally predictable, of course. Just had to wait for my moment.”

“You hit me too,” Cas pointed out, not sure whether to be mollified that Crowley hadn’t been planning to leave him to die, or to be annoyed that Crowley had anticipated Cas using himself as a distraction.

“Aimed as best as I could,” Crowley said impatiently. “You’re conscious, aren’t you? Now, I need your help. We’ve got…half an hour, maybe, before they all start waking up. Anyway, if you really doubt me, think about how I just gave up the chance to learn who their new king is for the sake of saving your mangy hide.”

Cas hesitated, still on his knees though Crowley was trying to heave him up with his good arm. His chest  _hurt_. “We should take one of them with us.”

“What?” Crowley snapped. He gave up on picking Cas up for a moment to be properly confused.

“They know something about Dean. If we can convince one of them to tell us where he is, we can go straight to Dean,” Cas said.

“Can’t risk it. We need to get away from them,” Crowley said, redoubling his efforts. With a mighty heave and a grimace he managed to get Cas to his feet. “And...I need your help.”

Suppressing a cough and tasting metal again, Cas wrapped an arm around his chest. He wondered if Crowley had really had any idea how weak he was when he’d come to his door asking for help, or how much weaker he was now, and supposed it best not to ask. Then he picked his way over to the demon who had stolen his angel blade a second time (this one was lying half in a pool that smelled strongly of sulfur) and took it back, stowing it in his sleeve. His right wrist was stiff and sore, but he forced himself to ignore it along with the stabbing pain in his side.

“Alphonso hinted he could find you anywhere,” Cas said, glancing at the now skinless, floating corpse in a tattered coat that was all that remained of the demon.

Crowley let out a long sight. “ _That_ is why I need your help. Do you ever listen?”

Cas tilted his head in confusion.

“What Alphonso said. I assume they’re tracking me,” Crowley explained. He glanced down at his hurt shoulder. “Only thing I can think of. Good friend Al here shot me with something before I managed to make my grand escape. Whether it’s meant to be an occult homing device or if it’s just powerful enough to send off a signal they can track, I don’t know. But I can’t get it out myself, believe me, I tried. That’s why I need your help. Preferably before they all come to and start trying to kidnap us again.”

“You want me to remove a bullet from your shoulder,” Cas clarified, frowning. That, at least, was something he had seen the Winchesters do on numerous occasions.

“Yes,” Crowley hissed frustratedly. “Or whatever it is. I didn’t see it, I felt it.”

Cas glanced around at the unconscious bodies surrounding them and nodded. “Very well. Sit down and take off your shirt.”

Crowley didn’t hesitate. He shucked off his drenched coat, then dropped to one knee a little too fast, and resettled himself into a sitting position between two pools with a grimace. Once on the ground, he started untying his sopping tie awkwardly with one hand.

Cas knelt behind him, noting the large stain of blood that spread across Crowley’s dark shirt at the back of his shoulder blade. It was clear that the wound was still bleeding sluggishly, leaving a dark splotch in the damp material. Then Crowley undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled it gingerly off his arm and shoulder.

Crowley’s shoulder was a mess. Whatever had hit him had left a large entrance wound, perhaps an inch or two in diameter, in the center of his shoulder blade. It had gone straight through the bone, and Cas could see little white splinters sticking out through the gory mess, along with what looked like the shredded remnants of Crowley’s previous shirt. And the whole area was tender and red and puffy, as though it were infected, which was, of course, odd for a demon. On another occasion, he might have been amused by the fact that the demon had bothered to find a new suit in between being ambushed and losing his kingdom and going to Cas for help. Now, though, he found something disquieting about it.

He still wasn’t pleased with Crowley—far from it—but the thought that his companion had been nursing an injury of this magnitude without complaint made him feel something strange. He had always assumed that Crowley would never suffer on anyone else’s behalf, if he could avoid it, and yet (whatever his true motivations were), he had apparently been willing to deal with considerable pain in the hopes of getting Dean back.

As another cough rumbled in Cas’s chest, bringing with it another spasm of pain the taste of blood, he supposed that he and Crowley did have one thing in common. On the other hand, the question of Crowley’s motives had grown even murkier. Cas, of course, would suffer anything for Dean because he cared about him very strongly—more so, if he were to be honest, than he had ever found himself able to admit to Dean or even to himself. But Crowley… certainly Crowley could not have the same motivation.

“Well?” Crowley prompted.

“Your shoulder’s badly damaged,” Cas reported, then asked out of genuine curiosity, “Why didn’t you ask me to do this earlier?”

“Didn’t know they were tracking me earlier, did I,” Crowley grunted.

“Yes, but, it must be painful,” Cas said, leaning in to study the injury more closely.

“Of course it is,” Crowley said. “Now will you get on with it? Tick, tock.”

Cas pulled out his angel blade and positioned the tip of the entrance to the wound. Crowley braced himself, his shoulders tense and his head bowed.

The puffy flesh surrounding the wound gave way easily to the blade, and he worked it in, trying to open up the wound enough to find whatever had lodged into Crowley’s shoulder. Though Crowley had made a small noise when Cas had initially pushed the tip of the blade in, he remained impressively quiet otherwise, his eyes pressed shut and jaw clenched.

Cas frowned slightly. It seemed almost as though whatever it was had worked itself in deeper since it had been shot into Crowley’s back. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see one of the demons twitching…

He pushed the blade in further, finding where the thing had punched into Crowley’s shoulder blade, then stuck his fingers roughly into the slippery opening. Crowley jerked and let out a sharp grunt of pain, but it had worked. He felt the smooth, foreign outline of something beneath his fingers, pressed up against the jagged bone. A sharp jab with the tip of the blade knocked it loose—eliciting a shout from Crowley—and he fished it out with his pointer and middle finger.

“I’ve got it,” he said. Other demons were beginning to twitch or move fitfully now. “Can you move?”

Crowley slumped forward, taking a gasping breath and letting out a formless groan. “Give me a bloody second, will you?”

Cas shrugged and glanced down at the blood covered thing in his hand. It was small, and smooth, and fairly unremarkable. It looked like a small stone. Just how it had done so much damage, or left Crowley's wound swollen and infected-looking, he wasn't sure.

“What is that?” Crowley asked. He held out his hand and Cas dropped it in. “Huh.”

As Crowley examined the thing, Cas leaned over and stabbed the nearest demon, whose eyes had started to flutter, in the throat. Wondering why he hadn’t thought to do this earlier, he staggered to his feet and dispatched of all but one.

“Oh yeah,” Crowley said exhaustedly. “Good idea. Now, we’ve got to go.”

“Why? What is that thing?” Cas asked.

Crowley held it up to one eye, squinting at it. “Honestly? Still not sure. It stays here. We go.”

He tossed it into one of the acidic pools. There was a small explosion as it hit the surface, and then it began sinking. He started pulling his shirt laboriously back on, gritting his teeth at the movement. 

On a whim, Cas knelt beside the pool where Alphonso had fallen and used his angel blade to hook his what was left of his belt and pull him toward the edge. Wincing, he heaved what was left of him onto dry ground, then dug his hands into the pockets of Alphonso's tattered coat, ignoring the sting of the acid soaking into his fingers. He pulled out what looked like a small pistol with a barrel the size of the stone he'd pulled from Crowley's shoulder, and pocketed it.

“I left one alive,” he informed Crowley. “We should bring her with us.”

“What?” Crowley said. 

Cas rolled his eyes. “You can’t be tracked anymore. We’re not about to be followed, unless we stay here, where we’ve left the tracking device. We should bring the demon with us, and interrogate her elsewhere. We need to find out where Dean is. And who has him. This may be out best chance.”

“…Fine,” Crowley sighed, grimacing. “But you’re carrying her.”


	5. Chapter 5

The passageway leading out of the room with the pools was rough, as passages through Hell went, and Crowley was stumbling. His shoulder throbbed incessantly and his arm was alternately painful and numb, throwing off his balance. His head ached dully and the power he'd used to blast the demons away from Cas had drained him, leaving his limbs feeling even more leaden than before. That he was still barefoot was doing little to help his mood, especially when he nearly tripped over a dip in the floor and stubbed the heel of his foot against the unforgiving rock. He swore under his breath, earning nothing but a cursory glance from his angelic companion--who admittedly seemed to be rather tied up himself. Castiel was bowed under the weight of the traitorous demon he was carrying, and his breath sounded harsh and wet in the thick silence. Every so often he stopped to cough painfully.

To make matters worse, in between hacking up his lungs, Cas kept asking him if he was sure they were heading in the right direction.

He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure at all. 

When the question came right after Crowley had accidentally brushed his shoulder up against the wall of the passage, sending breath-stealing pain boring down through the injury and radiating into his arm and back, he lost what little hold he had on his temper.

“No!” he snapped, turning on Cas and throwing his good hand into the air. “No. I'm not. I don't know exactly where we are.” 

“Crowley—”

"Don't  _Crowley_ me!" Crowley snarled irritably, turning to glare at him. "I don't even know what I'm doing here, let alone exactly where here is. When I figure it out, I will let you know, but if you weren't aware my duties as King had nothing to do with mapmaking and that means I'm doing the best I can, here!"

Cas stared at him stonily, clearly uninterested in extending any sympathy. In the dim, effervescent red light that permeated the tunnel despite there being no apparent light source, Crowley caught a hint of the terrifying angel Cas had once been. 

Until Cas staggered forward, setting the limp demon down on the floor with heavy thump. Then he followed, falling onto his knees and wrapping one arm around his chest, and coughing miserably into the crook of his other elbow. He looked so pathetic that Crowley almost forgot to be ashamed that he'd let Cas see just how...emotionally vulnerable he was at the moment.

“Uh,” Crowley said, when Cas didn't move. “Cas?”

After a seeming eternity, Cas lifted his head. His lips were red with blood and his breaths came raggedly. “We need to… interrogate… this demon… now.”

"Why?" Crowley said, looking around as if something in the dark, reddish gloom might have prompted the imperative. Then it occurred to him. He wasn't the only one who was nearing the end of his rope. Cas had made a good show of strength earlier, when he'd been slamming Crowley about, but the beating the demons had given him had proved too much for his failing grace. Once, Crowley might've felt a bit of supercilious glee. "You're too tuckered out to carry her any further," he observed.

Cas glared, a nice trademark Cas glare. Then he dropped his chin, his expression turning guarded. "She is heavier than she looks."

"I'm sure," Crowley said. He crouched down beside Cas and the motionless demon, suppressing a wince as his shoulder stabbed more pain. He ignored it with a dogged determination because Cas admitting weakness to him did not mean that they were about to have some sort of tit-for-tat sharing-their-troubles bonding moment. "I assume you can wake her, angel mojo and all?"

“I… yes,” Cas said. His face looked bloodless even in the reddish light. “One… one moment.”

Crowley sighed. “You know," he said conversationally. "If you keel over, I'm not dragging your sorry feathered behind out of here."

Cas's glare sharpened, and he straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and leaving behind a trail of bright red blood. “I'm fine," he insisted. "I’m going to wake her up now. Be…be ready.”

And without asking Crowley whether he was in fact ready, Cas touched two fingers to the traitor’s forehead. She awoke with a gasp, her eyes traveling between him and Cas shrewdly as she took in the situation. Crowley tried his best to look menacing despite the fact that he was still crouching behind Cas, his left arm held tightly to his body. 

“Clever,” the demon said after a moment. She spoke in the sort of cold, haughty tone that Crowley had once trained all his crossroads demons to use. He didn't remember her, though, and wondered distantly for a moment if the current king of the crossroads had held on to many of his old management tactics. Or maybe she was just a cold, haughty bitch.

“All right, we’re going to get down to business here,” Crowley said, injecting his own tone with a confidence he didn't feel. But then, he'd always been good at that. “Here’s the deal. You talk, and maybe you'll get out of this alive. Is that copacetic?”

He glanced briefly at Cas, hoping he wasn’t about to break down into another not-very-intimidating coughing fit. So far, the angel was also doing an admirable job of looking like he wasn't falling apart. A right pair, they were.

“What do you want me to talk about?” the demon asked, still smiling at him. Crowley hated it when they did that.

“Your _new king_ , first of all,” Crowley sneered. The first step to regaining control of, well, anything, was to get information about who had screwed him over so royally, pun not intended. “Who is he?”

The other demon tilted her head. She was attractive, with dark blonde hair and full lips and large hazel eyes. Crowley didn't know her name. “I can't tell you that."

"Can't, or won't?" Crowley said. Cas was watching with an unreadable expression. 

The demon's smile only widened. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and flicked a hand, catching her around the throat with his telekinesis and sliding her up the wall. Her eyes bugged out and she gasped for breath. At this point, the traitor probably had more power left than Crowley did, but there was no reason that she should know that, especially after his light show in the pool room. But then, Crowley had always been good at bluffing. He stood as smoothly as he could and went to leer at her.

“Oh, did I forget to mention? If you don’t answer the way I want you do, feathers here tortures you.”

Cas stepped forward, his angel blade pressed to the demon’s throat. For the first time, her smugness seemed to fail her. Crowley released some of the pressure on her, letting a smile play around his lips. 

“Forget the new king,” Cas said roughly, because _of course_ what Crowley wanted meant nothing to him at all, once again. “Where is Dean Winchester?”

When the captured demon hesitated, Cas pressed the blade into her throat, drawing blood. Then pressed it in farther.

“I can’t tell you!” she said.

Cas drew the knife down, slicing open a deep, sparking line in the demon’s exposed neck. In a human, the injury might have been fatal, but Cas apparently knew what he was doing. Crowley raised an eyebrow, his respect for the angel ratcheting up slightly. Though he’d long known Cas could be a brutal bastard if he had to, he’d rarely had the occasion to witness it firsthand without being on the receiving end of it. 

“Tell me. Where. Dean is,” Cas growled, drawing the blade from her neck to her collarbone. On the last syllable he slammed it into her flesh to the hilt, drawing a short scream.

The traitor’s eyes flicked to black. “I’ll tell you nothing.”

Cas twisted the blade and she screamed again. Cas’s face was taught with fury, and the intensity in his eyes—almost the burning blue or grace—made Crowley’s skin crawl. Respect turned to something that was nearly fear. He reflected that, a week ago, if someone had told him he'd be torturing demons with Castiel in the belly of Hell, he'd probably have laughed them away.

In the end, covered in blood from two dozen wounds and shaking like a leaf, the demon told them where to find Dean. It had taken less than half an hour.

The real kicker was where the traitor claimed Dean to be. Crowley’s own chambers.

It was embarrassing, to say the least.

Worse, the knowledge also made that strange, sticky feeling—a too-holy mixture of worry and guilt—return in Crowley’s gut. He'd made little effort to hide his affection for Dean over the past several months, and the simple fact that he  _liked_ the newly minted Knight of Hell had been well-known. It only made sense that the usurper would want to keep Dean close, but it was more than a little sickening (and a little too on the nose) that he'd felt the need to put him up in Crowley's bed. 

As soon as the demon spoke, Cas brought the blade back and stabbed her through the throat. She hit the ground, sparking into death. Cas stared spitefully at the corpse, his lip curling.

"Well done," Crowley said. They still weren't friends, but it was well within his purview as a demon to appreciate some artful torture. "You know, you'd make a very good demon."

Cas frowned at him with his whole face. "It had to be done."

"Course it did," Crowley said. "Point still stands."

"We know where Dean is, now," Cas said, his voice gravelly and low with anger. "Stop...complimenting me."

"All right, a criticism then. Why did you stop her from telling me who their new king is? This is the kind of information I really need to know." 

"I stopped her," Cas said slowly. "Because I don't care. I'm here to save Dean. I don't care if you regain your throne."

Crowley rolled his eyes, but his comeback was interrupted by Cas's attempt to take a deeper breath, which was followed by a violent coughing fit that doubled Cas over and left his eyes streaming. When Cas finally straightened, there were gobs of sticky blood on his sleeve.

“Well,” Crowley said cheerily. “You really bring new meaning to the phrase, ‘coughing up a lung.’” 

“How far are we to your chambers?” Cas said roughly, lurching away from the wall he’d been leaning on. He swayed. Without much thinking about it, Crowley reached out to steady him. Cas's eyes traveled down to Crowley's hand on his arm, then up to Crowley's face, plainly confused. Crowley dropped his hand, not sure either why he'd reached out to help him. He was barely steady on his feet himself.

“That still depends on where we are,” Crowley said, but could barely tap into his earlier irritation at Cas asking where they were. He was still a roiling mess of unwanted emotions, embarrassed at his mystery usurper putting Dean in his bedroom, worried that he still didn't know the identity of said mystery usurper, worried about Dean and himself and how he and Cas were going to pull this off when they'd gone into it hurting and had not improved things for themselves.

“Then we have to keep on going,” Cas said.

The phrase made Crowley smirk, despite how little he felt like smiling.

"What?" Cas said.

Crowley let out a soft snort. “When you’re going through Hell…”

Cas stopped reeling for a moment to frown at him, a faraway look creeping over his face. “The country music song by Rodney Atkins?”

“Winston Churchill,” Crowley said, rolling his eyes. “Come on, now, Castiel. That’s just embarrassing.”


	6. Chapter 6

Even without the demon on his back, they were moving frustratingly slowly. Each shallow breath sent hot, stabbing pain through Cas’s side, and there was no ignoring the way the blood was burbling increasingly insistently in his right lung. Normally, not breathing would have been the best option, but his depleted grace meant that his body’s needs were inching closer and closer to human. Anything he could do to abate the pain would only hasten the decline of his already fading grace. So he gritted his teeth and ignored the pain as best he could, even when his traitorous body engaged in the all-too-human reflex of coughing to try to clear its lungs. He was also distracted by the chill that had settled into his bones weeks ago, but had returned with a vengeance after his trip through the water. The stone beneath his bare feet was chilly, and each time he shivered it jarred his ribs and made him fight another bout of coughing.

Despite that, it hadn’t been too difficult to focus on getting the information about Dean out of the demon. As he and Crowley stumbled onward, it occurred to Cas that perhaps he should be concerned about that. As an angel, he’d done many ruthless and terrible things. However, torture had never come easily to him. Except, apparently, when Dean was at stake. It occurred to him that Crowley had simply stepped back and let him do it. He wasn’t entirely sure what to make of that either.

He shot a glance at Crowley, and had to remind himself that Crowley was responsible for what had happened to Dean in the first place. But Cas was beginning to wonder at Crowley’s motivations for having done so, just as he had begun to question why Crowley was here, now, on a rescue mission that could very well cost him his life. He’d feel no need to save Dean if he’d turned him out of malice, or even out of a desire to bolster his own position in Hell. The only explanation that made any sense—and one that Crowley would no doubt deny if pressed—was that he cared for Dean.

It was hard to believe.

Time stretched out as they walked down the dark, rough-hewn tunnel, saying little. Though Crowley was leading the way, Cas had stopped bothering to ask Crowley if he knew where they were (and now that he was no longer carrying the weight of the demon they’d captured, the urgency to know had faded). There was just the path ahead and the constant throbbing in his side and the wet gasp of breath as his body struggled to supply itself with oxygen.

Crowley stopped. In his haze of pain and exhaustion, it took Cas a moment to both register that fact, and understand why.

They’d come to the end of the tunnel. But instead of a door, or another chamber, the floor simply dropped off into utter darkness. Cas stepped past Crowley to peer over the edge. The dim red light of the tunnel radiated just far enough for him to see a steep wall dropping down below them, the bottom nowhere in sight. The tunnel had apparently opened up into a steep, rocky cliff face looking out over… nothing.

“Damn it,” Cas said, stepping back. Obviously, Crowley had taken them in the wrong direction. Now they were that much farther away from finding Dean.

Except, Crowley didn’t look nearly so disappointed. He was rubbing his shoulder absentmindedly, a soft grimace on his face, but otherwise he only looked thoughtful.

“What is it?” Cas asked, then stifled another cough. The tearing pain in his side was all-consuming for a moment, but he managed to marshal his senses well enough to hear Crowley’s answer.

“I know where we are,” Crowley said triumphantly.

“Yes. That’s great,” Cas said impatient and still breathless. “We still have to turn back, don’t we?”

Crowley was shaking his head, his grimace deepening. “This is the Endless Cavern,” he said. “Terrible name, I know, but it’s essentially the center of Hell. Used to be where we strung up all the new souls for torment, before I revamped the place—as you’ll recall.” Cas did recall an endless DMV line decorated with pictures of Crowley in dictator gear, and he rolled his eyes impatiently. Crowley went on, “We can get to my chambers from here. It’s not far. Everything connects here.”

“How do we get there?” Cas asked flatly, staring down into the darkness. He missed his wings.

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Well, normally I’d teleport.”

“Normally?”

“Can’t now,” Crowley said shortly, and didn’t elaborate.

“All right,” Cas said, what little patience he’d held onto quickly fraying. He could feel another cough brewing and pressed his hand to his ribs, willing his body, and his grace, to hold out a little while longer. For Dean. The thought helped steady him. If they could just get there, they could save Dean. “If we can’t teleport, how do we get to your chambers?”

Crowley peered down into the darkness, then looked back up at Cas and sighed. “There’s a door in the cliff wall. The main entrance to the Cavern. It leads to my wing of Hell.”

Cas felt his eyebrows drawing together. Deep in the cavernous space before them, there was a flash and the distant echo of thunder. “How _far_ is this door?”

Crowley’s face creased into an expression that was as much a grimace as it was a smile. “It’s not far.”

“Crowley, what aren’t you telling me?” Cas growled, his impatience surging again. The cough finally burst out of him with the harsh words, and he was surprised to find Crowley steadying him again. He pulled away, swallowing coppery blood.

“Well,” Crowley said, once Cas had regained his composure, “if I’m right, it’s directly below us.”

“Below us,” Cas repeated disbelievingly.

“Believe me,” Crowley said tiredly. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”

He was rubbing his shoulder again and Cas had to suppose he was telling the truth.

“So, we climb down,” Cas said aloud, more to inure himself to the idea than for clarification. Crowley answered anyway.

“Yes.”

Had his ribs not been stabbing pain with each shallow breath he took, Cas might have heaved a sigh. He’d remembered Hell’s strange geography from his first trip, but that had been a very different kind of experience. As an angel at full power, backed by his garrison, neither climbing nor swimming nor plodding down endless corridors had been necessary. They’d simply stormed their way in, fighting their way past scores of demon guards. It had been difficult and bloody and several of his brothers and sisters had perished, but at least it had been direct.

 He and Crowley didn’t say much before starting their descent, the fact that it was likely to be extremely unpleasant for both of them unspoken between them. It niggled at Cas, though, even as they gingerly dropped themselves over the edge. Crowley had to care about Dean. It was the only explanation.

He should have found the thought reassuring. If Crowley was doing this out of the goodness of his heart, then it meant Cas could probably trust him. At least, to eventually do what would be best for Dean. Perhaps.

Instead, the idea that Crowley felt something brought a sick tug of jealously to Cas’s gut. It had been bad enough to think that Crowley had stolen Dean away for nefarious purposes. That Crowley, in his own way, might have simply wanted Dean around… well, he hadn’t been expecting to have to compete with Crowley for Dean’s affections. Especially since it seemed that, demon or not, Dean had had no compunctions about leaving to go with him.

Cas shoved the thoughts away. It didn’t matter what Dean thought of him, or of Crowley. All that mattered was getting Dean back. And at the moment, that meant focusing on descending the rocky cliff falling out beneath him.

It wasn’t entirely sheer, but rather sloped downward at a steep angle. And the rock was rough, with enough crevices and jagged outcroppings that finding places for his hands and feet didn’t require any sort of special skill. Despite the darkness he was able to move slowly downward, one handhold and foothold at a time. But the rock was cold and rough against his palms and bare feet, and the effort of holding himself to it was sending heat lightning through Cas’s ribs. He had to clamp down once more on his body’s desire to breathe, which left him lightheaded and shaky before he’d even descended five feet.

He didn’t ask Crowley how far it was. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Time seemed to stretch out again, as Cas’s world narrowed once more. Now it was the feel of the cold, rough rock under his hands, the gaping, bottomless chasm below him, and the seizing pain in his chest. He was vaguely aware that Crowley was matching his descent, though he was keeping one arm close and immobile.

Then something huge shot past Cas, lightning fast, and he almost lost his grip on the rough stone. He froze, clinging to the cliff face, his heart pounding in his throat. Whatever it was had had been covered in coarse hair.

“What was that?” he called to Crowley, who was still moving slowly downward.

“What was wh—oh!” Crowley said, flattening against the cliff. “Damn it.”

“Crowley?” Cas said. He let go of one of his handholds to reach for his angel blade, though he couldn’t have said how he was planning to use it. He had no leverage, and the entrance to the tunnel was already several feet above his head.

“Forgot to mention,” Crowley said, in a funny tight voice. “The Cavern’s got…  spiders.”

“Spiders,” Cas repeated, his grip on his angel blade tightening. Whatever had moved past him had been large, at least the size of a deer.

"Really big spiders,” Crowley amended. “There’s a reason even demons hate Hell. We should really move.”

A second later two things shot past them in the dark. Cas reflected that in general, he considered spiders to be God’s creatures, who did an important job for the planet Earth and were generally rather inoffensive. Deer-sized hell spiders, he was far less fond of.

Cas stowed the angel blade again and started climbing down faster, ignoring the shooting pains in his side and stifling the urge to cough. Crowley was nearby, mere feet away, as if proximity might keep them safe. Now he was aware of several shapes moving around them, as if with intelligence. Examining them, stalking them. Not daring to think about the possibility of falling, he put hand under hand and foot under foot and had descended perhaps another ten feet when one of the dark shapes moved in closer and finally lunged.

He saw a big hairy body and a multitude of eyes and sharp mandibles before a hot pain seared in his arm and the thing was tugging him away. He lost his grip with a cry, flailing to catch himself or defend himself. His elbow scraped the hard stone but he found a new handhold, clinging desperately. With his other hand, the one caught in the spider’s maw he sought out the spider’s head, scrabbling to keep his feet on the rock. As soon as he grabbed hair he forced his grace to swell and explode through his hand, smiting the spider with everything he had. His grace burst through his palm and seared the spider from the inside out, its many eyes bursting into flame. It let go of Cas’s arm, falling lifelessly into the pit, and Cas swung back to the rock, the impact of it knocking the wind from his tortured lungs and making him wheeze for breath. But he couldn’t stop because there were more of them, they were on top of them and it wouldn’t be long before—

“Castiel!” Crowley called out. He was extending his arm toward Cas even as a second spider bore down on him. “Grab my hand! Your power, whatever else you’ve got! Get it up!”

There wasn’t time to think. Cas grabbed Crowley’s outstretched hand and focused on corralling what was left of his failing grace. Then there was a brief flash and they were lying on solid ground, in a quiet, empty hallway, torches burning in overwrought sconces all around them.

Panting for breath though each one was a new agony, Cas forced himself to his hands and knees. His right arm was throbbing, slippery with blood and something gooey that the spider had apparently been secreting. “What…” he panted, “what…did you…do.”

Crowley was still lying on his back where he’d landed, though he started to slowly sit up, deathly pale under his beard and clutching his shoulder. His hand was shaking. “Guess it worked,” he said. “Didn’t think it would, oil and water and all.”

“What worked?” Cas said sharply, in no mood for Crowley’s typical vagueness and riddles.

“Tapped into your grace,” Crowley said, holding his hand up to his face to examine it and wiggling his fingers, like there might be some lingering residue of angel. “It was enough. To teleport us out of there,” he added, when Cas only stared at him flatly. “Power is power.”

Cas looked at him a few seconds longer, then said, “Thank you. You saved my life.”

“Eh,” Crowley said dismissively. “Only way to save to myself. Don’t get attached.”

“It’s the second time you’ve saved my life,” Cas pressed. It seemed important, somehow. “You didn’t have to. You must see now that I’m—not much use to you.”

Crowley’s face turned shrewd, as if he were searching for the hidden meaning in Cas’s words. “Forget it, angel. Still better off with you than without you. All I really want to do here is find our wayward Winchester.”

It was Cas’s turn to fix him with a searching look. Had Crowley truly just voiced what Cas had suspected? “You care about him,” he said accusingly.

Crowley harrumphed. “I do not.”

Cas only squinted at him.

Crowley’s expression soured. “All right. Fine. Maybe a little.”

Cas didn’t respond, and there was a short silence between them.

“Where are we now?” Cas said, focusing on climbing to his knees. His entire body was shaking, whether from the pain or his encounter with the spider or Crowley’s use of his power, he wasn’t sure.  For all that Crowley claimed to have had no altruistic motives, Cas found that his anger toward the demon had abated, at least momentarily. Whereas such an invasion might once have left him feeling violated, he was simply glad now that it had worked.

“Corridor, not far from the throne room and my chambers. It’s usually empty,” Crowley said. He too was working his way to his feet, though he sounded exhausted and drained. “Figured we wouldn’t want to plop ourselves down right in the middle of all the hostile traitors.”

“That was a good idea,” Cas told him earnestly. He’d made it to his feet, bracing himself against the wall with his good arm, and tucking the other one in close to his damaged ribs. The stone was much smoother here, and worked to look like it belonged in some sort of medieval castle. It was also warmer, a fact for which Cas was very glad, thought it brought with it a stench like burning flesh and sulfur.

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said.

They were silent for a few more moments, then Cas said, “What you’re doing here—trying to save Dean—it’s not what I’d expect from a demon.”

“Well, torture’s not what I’d expect from an angel,” Crowley said.

Despite the pain and fear and uncertainty, Cas gave a soft snort of amusement. Because really, they were both pretty poor excuses for what they were supposed to be, and their reasons were apparently the same.

“For Dean,” Cas said.

“Yeah,” Crowley said tiredly, shaking his head like he could barely believe it himself. “Suppose it is.” Then he shook himself. “Now. Are we going to stand here jawing about our feelings like a couple of teenage girls, or are we going to do this?”


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley leaned against the wall. The brief thrill of escape, of _power_ , had faded in an instant, but it had left behind a sort of giddy residue, like the end was in sight and maybe they’d pull this off after all. He hadn’t meant to admit to Cas that anything but selfish motives were behind his actions. A, because he was the (ex) King of Hell and it was bad for his image, and B, because having any sorts of feelings for anyone beside himself remained an utterly terrifying concept. Even as a human he’d barely given a damn about anyone, including his own son.

Well, maybe he could blame it on the pain. The climb down the wall hadn’t done his shoulder any favors, and the giddiness was sliding fast into light-headedness. That was fine. He was fine.

 “There’s enough activity in these parts I’d doubt anyone noticed that teleport in,” Crowley said, wrenching his thoughts into more familiar territory. Always easier to think about the _how_ than the _why_. “Which means all we have to do is dodge this...new King’s lackeys, and… and…”

The world was tilting crazily, and Crowley realized too late that he was sliding down the wall. He landed awkwardly on his knees, pitching forward and catching himself on his good hand. The shock of the landing jarred his injured shoulder and he hissed, curling in on himself, his eyes closing. Cas had already seen him at less than his best but this was just embarrassing.

 “…Crowley? Crowley,” Cas was saying from somewhere near his face.

Crowley opened his eyes, groaning slightly at the sight of Cas’s round face inches from his. The angel was crouching beside him, his brow furrowed in concern. A pressure on his good shoulder turned out to be Cas’s hand steadying him.

“Get off me,” Crowley grumbled, trying to shrug him off. He must not have been trying as hard as he thought, or else the angel was especially determined, because his hand on Crowley’s shoulder didn’t budge. The pain in his other shoulder was verging on blinding, throbbing insistently with what felt like a renewed intensity, radiating deeper and deeper into his back.

It didn’t make sense. Cas had fished out the tracker thingy. It should have gotten better by now.

“Crowley,” Cas said again.

“I’m fine,” Crowley snapped. He didn’t need for Cas to believe it, he just needed…a minute. His breath was harsh in his own ears, and he wasn’t sure he believed it either.

For a moment, he pondered just giving up. Forgetting Dean, forgetting the throne, and slinking away to lick his wounds and figure out Plan B. In other words, to do exactly what he’d done every other time his life had been in any way threatened. He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t sentimental. It was absurd for him to be here at all, let alone trying to push through the worst he’d felt since, well, at least since he’d become a demon.

He straightened up. He’d committed. Dean was still out there—so close—and over the past several months Crowley had discovered that where Dean was concerned, the usual rules didn’t really apply. He’d think it meant there was something wrong with him, if it wasn’t glaringly obvious that Dean had the exact same effect on the angel standing next to him.

The angel who was still talking. Crowley looked at him blearily, forcing himself to focus.

“—Let me save you,” Cas was saying.

Crowley hugged his bad arm to his chest and gave Cas a deeply suspicious look. He hadn’t forgotten how, not a day ago, Cas had been slamming him against walls left and right and threatening his very life. Maybe he hadn’t heard right. He had been tuning out, after all.

“You want to do what?”

“Save you,” Cas said irritably, sounding like he might be considering rescinding the offer. Then he clarified, “I want to heal you.”

“Why?” Crowley asked stupidly. He couldn’t understand why Cas would offer him that service if he had any energy to do it for himself. Certainly, in his position, Crowley would not be offering.

It was Cas’s turn to give Crowley a flat stare. “Is that a joke?” The poor angel sounded like he really wasn’t sure. “We’re close, Crowley. Dean is here. But you can’t stay on your feet and I’m…” Cas broke off, looking at the floor, as if what he was about to say was distasteful. “I’m not very useful right now,” he settled on, then had to stop to cough hoarsely, his features pinching into a tight grimace. “I can’t fly, I can’t fight very well, and it’s only going to get worse. My arm is numb, and it’s spreading.”

He stopped, staring at Crowley meaningfully.

“Oh,” Crowley said. His eyes traveled to where the spider’s maw had left a deep, bloody gouge in Cas’s forearm. That the bite was poisonous (or something) was hardly shocking, considering Hell. “ _Oh_.”

Cas was still gazing at him with his vessel’s annoyingly piercing blue eyes, and Crowley wondered distantly to what extent Cas had chosen the poor bugger for his angelic looks. “It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for Dean. And I—I trust that you want to get him out of here as much as I do. If I can heal you, you can still get him out. This is not energy that I can spare, but if I don’t… none of us are likely to survive this.”

Crowley found himself staring back with almost as much intensity. For all Cas had stumbled over the word, he’d said it.

“You _trust_ me,” he repeated, a slight smile curling his lips.

Cas’s expression was edging back toward exasperated. “No. I don’t trust _you_. I trust—I believe—that you will do what you think is best for Dean. Unlike this new King of Hell, whoever it is. From everything I’ve seen here, I believe that. Am I wrong?”

He sounded so desperate in those last few words that Crowley’s reflexive desire to snark in the face of real emotion died right there. He didn’t care about the angel—really, he didn’t—but this wasn’t about Cas. “No,” he admitted. “You’re not wrong.”

“Sam knows where we went,” Cas added. He was holding his entire arm stiffly like he couldn’t feel it anymore. “I left him a note. If you try to steal Dean away again, he will find you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowley said. Moose wanted him dead. What else was new. “Like I said. Cross that bridge. I’ll get Squirrel out of here. That is the point of all this.”

“Promise me,” Cas said roughly.

Crowley rolled his eyes, though he understood the gravity of what Cas was doing. Giving up what was left of his power, his will, his agency, to give his mortal enemy a snowball’s chance at saving Dean.

It wasn’t that Crowley had ever doubted that Cas loved Dean. But there were different kinds of love and for all he’d joked about the angel being the Winchester’s boytoy, he’d never been exactly sure what kind it was. Now, he was. The idea made him feel strange, like he’d just surpassed a hurdle he hadn’t even been aware of.

“I promise,” Crowley said, wondering vaguely what Cas thought his promise was worth. Enough, apparently, because Cas took a step closer to him and pressed his hand against Crowley’s bad shoulder.

For a second, even the light pressure was enough to make Crowley have to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from crying out in pain. But then it was fading, a gentle warmth spreading along with bright light from Cas’s palm. It seeped into his skin, his muscle, his bone. He heard a light tinkle as what looked like shards of the same material the tracker had been made of floated out of the wound and dropped to the floor, the skin mending beneath it.

As Cas’s hand pulled away, Crowley stood up straighter, feeling better than he had in days. The agony that had gripped him every time he moved his arm was gone.  

Cas collapsed to the floor beside him with a loud thump.

Crowley crouched down beside the still form, reveling in the ease of the movement. Cas’s face was deathly pale, the circles around his eyes like bruises. Though he was still breathing shallowly, he was ice cold and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. Clearly, he’d done as he’d said, and used up the rest of his grace to give Crowley a shot.

Once again, Crowley thought about just turning around and leaving. He could probably get out much easier, now, and it wasn’t like he owed Cas anything. He was a demon—it was absurd to assume his promise meant anything. He could go underground change his name, forget about Dean and ruling Hell and go back to the comfortable life he’d always had.

Cas gurgled wetly by his knees, drained. It had been a desperate, stupid move, trusting Crowley. Without even a contract with which to doctor the fine print.

Except… the comfortable life he’d always had no longer existed. He didn’t want to go back to sitting alone, night after night, tallying souls and toasting the misdeeds of humanity. Not after the last few months had shown him that it could be better to not be alone. That sometimes, it was worth letting someone get a little closer.

He frowned down at Cas’s still body. Even his breathing was slowing now, presumably as the spider’s venom took hold. Or maybe he was just dying. Either way…

Cas had gambled on Crowley’s sentimentality. And as much as it made him grit his teeth, Crowley found that he could no more turn his back on Dean than he could delete that photo of the two of them wearing cowboy hats no matter what the underlings said behind his back. He’d started this and he would see it through. He needed Dean around, plain and simple. And, fuck it all, he did kind of owe it to Castiel now.

He pocketed Castiel’s sword and dragged him into a small alcove where he hid his stiffening body behind a large, grotesque gargoyle. By the time he’d left him there, the angel had stopped breathing. Crowley felt an odd pang. For all he and Cas had never seen eye to eye, he’d never exactly wanted to see the angel dead. On the other hand, it might’ve been a good thing, since his hiding spot was hardly impeccable. He probably wouldn’t have a chance to come back for the angel’s body, and dead was probably better than being an angel in the pit.

Cas out of the way, Crowley looked up and down the corridor—which was rarely traveled but not never, especially if Cas’s healing energy had pinged anyone’s sensors—and was satisfied that they’d left no other evidence of their stay behind. (Well, aside from a few small smudges of blood on the stone tile, which probably wouldn’t raise an alarm. It was Hell, after all.)

With his arm in working order, it didn’t take long for Crowley to leave Cas behind and make his way toward his old chambers. He knew the labyrinth of hallways well enough to dodge the guards with little trouble, and the focus he’d regained after Cas’s healing made him feel more than alert. He had to stab a demon or two, but all in all, it didn’t take long for him to reach the back entrance to the chambers.

If he’d been a bit less giddy at the healing, it might have occurred to him that it had been just a little too easy.

The doors, like everything in this part of hell, were wrought of stone and iron and carved to look like something you’d find in a haunted house come Halloween. Crowley had always hated Hell’s medieval sense of style, and he actually found himself shaking his head at it.

He had to focus. No matter how good he felt, or how close he was, he wasn’t out of the woods by any means.

He pressed his ear to the door and listened. Important to get a sense for what he was getting into and all that. A thrill shot through his body as the familiar rumble of Dean’s voice reached his ears. Dean was alive, and talking—not screaming. A good sign.

A voice answered, one Crowley didn’t recognize. The words were muffled but the tone was stately. The new King, perhaps. He tightened his grip on Cas’s angel blade. It was now or never, before anyone found him lurking outside the doors.

Taking a step back, Crowley pointed his palm at the door and blasted it with the power he’d regained. The doors snapped inward, slamming into the walls on either side, and Crowley stepped through.

And froze.

It was Dean, all right, and another demon. But it was Dean who was stretched out comfortably on Crowley’s chair, his feet kicked up on Crowley’s expensive mahogany desk, a lazy smile playing on his lips. When he turned his gaze to Crowley, his eyes were jet black. The other demon was the one bowing in deference, looking to Dean for the next course of action.

The _new King_.

Crowley stumbled back a step, his mind running through the same thoughts over and over again in a whirlwind of horror. He’d miscalculated. Dean had betrayed him. He was probably going to die. None of it, nothing he or Castiel had suffered, none of it had been worth it. Dean had betrayed him.

The doors he’d so triumphantly blown open slammed shut behind him.

Dean’s smile widened into a feral grin. “Well, look who decided to show.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Cas really dead? Well, the archive warnings should give you some idea...
> 
> Until next time!


End file.
